The Prodigal Father
by Libbleslie
Summary: Is it cruelty, or means of atonement, to never face someone again after you feel you have failed so greatly you cannot be forgiven? Is it cowardice, or love, to leave ones family behind? A look into Annette's life's regarding her father.


Ser Gustave of House Dominic had always been a stern, imposing figure. One must mind their manners, their tongues, their posture, even their prayers under his strict eyes.

But for Annette Fantine Dominic, She always knew the warmth that lay under the chilly, formidable shell. Her father's smiles were rare, but they were there, when he caught a particularly nice fish, when he embraced his wife after a march, when Annette showed him something new she had learned, or when he would present Annette with a new doll, always carved by his own hands when he had time to sit down to relax and whittle. It was lonely life when her father was away, that she would not deny, yet, even as a child, Annette knew there was something inside her father that drove him to work so much.

Perhaps it was not every little girls ideal life, but it was hers, and it was special and not lacking in love. That was what matter the most.

The king was dead, the land of Duscar laid to ruin, so many slaughtered.

It was called the Tragedy of Duscar for a reason.

Annette did not know the king. She did not know the newly orphaned princeling her father mentored aside, though he had told her so much about the boy that even as a stranger he felt familiar.

Yet even for Annette, the tragedy's shockwaves reached her.

Her father was gone. Without a word. Without so much as a hug goodbye.  
But he was not amongst the dead. No, he was amongst the living. That much Annette and her mother knew.

But why? Why would he abandon them? Surely he still loved them. But why….

Life with her uncle was less quiet, certainly, and Annette knew that he did love her and her mother. But the warm, albeit lonely life she had lived before was not like this one. If Annette had thought her father strict, her uncle was even more so.

You must be perfect at cooking, at cleaning, at sewing. You must be a proper lady. You are a knights daughter, you must make something of yourself, or you are devaluing your family legacy and the crest your bear.

Annette did not mind too much. She knew he meant it out of love, and she had always loved to learn since she was so young.

But there was always that burning question in her mind. Where had her father gone? Why had he not returned?

The former, she thought she knew. Gustave Dominic was nothing if not a devout man. Surely Garrag Mach would be the most likely place. The monastery. To be as close to the goddess as he could be.

She found herself filled with resolve. She needed to get to the monastery. To the academy.

But surely her uncle would never approve, and Annette was still but a child. How then could she enroll into the academy? She could not pay her way without her uncles help.

No, to pave her way to the academy- to the monastery, she would need to take a different route. One that would cause many a sleepless night and many aches in her muscles. Enrolling in the school for magic scholars was the first step. The work she put herself through was grueling, but it had earned her what she had wanted. It had become her pass to the monastery.

Yet at Garreg Mach her father's face was not one of those amongst the monks and priests or even the Soldiers of the church.

Her hard work, it had seemed, had been for nothing.

But it was not truly for naught. Her true goal was yet still out of reach, but in her pursuit of it she had broaden her horizons. Now she had her studies, and more importantly her friends. Her life was not the lonely thing it had once been. It hurt, that she had been wrong about her fathers whereabouts. But so much good had come out of it.

Then there he was.

It was his build, his face, his hair, though it was streaked with gray. But it was not his name.

This was Gilbert, not Gustave. A renowned knight. Everyone seemed to know who he was.

It is not uncommon for those with pasts they would rather forget to come to the monastery and take up new mantles.

She was certain it was her father.

She knew it in her heart.

So why?

Why would he not look at her?

Why would he not speak to her?

Yet when moments came he could not avoid looking or talking to her, he spoke as if she was no more than a stranger. A student of the academy. Nothing more, nothing less. Yet if she truly was a stranger, why did his eyes hold such pain? Such recognition?

It was war. War against the church, war against the alliance, against the kingdom. Her teacher was gone, the archbishop gone, everyone else scattered or dead. For five long years she saw so few of her friends. Those that were still her friends, and thankfully nor did she see those who were no longer on the same side as she was. Her father was gone once again. Slipped from her grasp.

Five years, the millennium fast approaching. Her promise to return remembered.

She did not imagine the dead prince would be there, or many of her friends.

Or her father.

yet now they were thrust together by war. By need to help one another to fight against the empire.

why won't he look at her.

Why won't he speak to her.

Why must he ignore her.

The anger and hurt finally reach a boiling point, and off she went, searching for him amongst the ruins of the monastery. It wasn't difficult to find him. There he was, predictably in the cathedral, standing solemnly as he prayed.

The questions pour from her. But the answers he has to give to nothing to sooth the wounds his absence has caused. She does not want his empty apologies. And to her, they are empty. She has made something of her life without him. She has not needed him. Not truly. But her mother she knows, still waits for her father to return on day.

He apologizes, but he's clear he is not intending to return. So what good are his apologies?

when he summons her, it comes quite unexpected. He wishes to talk to her? So she answers his call, meeting him there in the cathedral where she last left him. Had he even moved since that evening? Or had he stayed there, as if he was one of the saintly statues carved from marble?

The gift he gives her would have made her shout with joy and smile a beaming, happy smile what feels like a lifetime ago. But now, as she holds the little wooden doll. Her heart is not sure whether to be elated or angry. He made this, thinking of her. But how can one doll repair what was lost for so many years? It can't.

Throw it away if she feels like it, he insists. But how cruel, she thinks. She should cry, yell, scold him, stop him from walking away. She should go to the bridge of the cathedral and throw the doll as hard as she can off of it. But she cannot. And she knows he knows as well as she does that she could never throw it away. And so it stays, tucked away in a pocket of her dress.

To throw away, or give away later, she tells herself. She will. She'll throw it away. She must.

The tower scared her. It scared Ashe, too. That, at least, was comforting. But they made it out alive, thankfully.

But wait.

Her doll.

where is her doll? She had it when it when they entered the tower.

its with a mixed feeling of despair that she realizes she has left it in the tower.

Ashes concern is touching, but she cannot bring herself to go back in for it, and she could not ask him to go in her stead.

Yet when she finds herself standing outside the tower again, trying to sum up the courage to go in for the doll she finds she simply cannot bring herself to do it. Her fear of the tower is stronger than the attachment she feels for the gift her father has given her. She should just turn around and leave it. She had meant to throw it away anyway. Why has she come back for it?

But Ashe has come to her aid. With a ruckus he comes from the tower, stumbling into her before happily showing off what he had braved his fears for. A sweet gesture. But Ashe does not know what it is like to feel abandoned.

She finds him praying. Not unsurprising. Why does he think himself to blame for the tragedy. Why must he blame himself for failing the late king. The prince survived the tragedy. He fulfilled his duty as best he could. The late king woulve understood that. Everyone else understands it. Why can't he?  
The bundle of letters he hands her comes as a surprise. Burn them, if the contents upset her, he tells her.  
Letters for her mothers, letters for her. Why did he never send them?  
How many times did they speak of wishing he would at least send them word he was okay. Just once!  
But here in this bundle there is one for every birthday, every holiday. One for any possible occasion over the years.  
Why would he not send them?

She should take them and burn each one in the flame of the candle she reads them by. Yet even as her hand holds one above the flame she cannot bring herself to lower it into the fire. Instead it goes back into the pile with a sigh. No, upset her as they might, just like the doll, she cannot bring herself to be rid of them. He never stopped writing them, even if he never sent them. He still thought of them in his absence. In his self imposed penance.

His apologies when she confronts him ring as hollow to her ears as all the ones before. But now, something in her heart feels a little more mended. The bundle of letters can never heal the hurt he has caused, but now she understands his mind a little more.  
They reach an understanding. If he will not send the letters, than she will. He did not hate them as they had feared but never dared to say aloud. He was misguided, certainly, but the love was there.  
A promise to return made, and its a promise she fully intends to hold him to. If he does not keep it, then they will be done, she will never speak to him again.  
But somehow, in her heart, she knows there is no need to fear that will happen.

She cannot wait until they are all a family once again.


End file.
